


Your Light Shines Bright, Across the Years

by MightyAmphitrite



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - The Great Gatsby Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky is Gatsby, Dark Past, Disillusionment, F/M, Inspired by The Great Gatsby, Lavish Parties, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-World War I, Reporter Peter Parker, Reunions, Steve is Daisy, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MightyAmphitrite/pseuds/MightyAmphitrite
Summary: The summer of 1925 is off to a grand start: Peter Parker is living in New York, has just started his first job as a reporter, and gets an invite to a spectacular party at the mansion next door...When he tells his cousin Steve about the party, everything changes. Because behind the glitter and glamor, nothing is as it seems; not Steve's beautiful fiancée, or his perfect life and war hero reputation, or the enigmatic millionaire next door with the sad brown eyes. What is the truth? And will past mistakes drag down any dreams of a brighter future?A Stucky Great Gatsby AU, aka Peter Parker's Summer of Free Food and Intrigue.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Your Light Shines Bright, Across the Years

The moment he walked through the door, barely able to squeeze through the crowd, Peter Parker felt a thrill rush through him like a wave, even as he realized he was in entirely over his head.

Bold brassy jazz swelled and crashed through the gigantic space, the rumble of a pipe organ echoing inexplicably in the background. The whole room seemed to ripple as the dancing throng that filled it jumped and spun, so much champagne flying between them that it felt like being caught in a light effervescent rain. Peter wished his eyes, wide as they were, could see in every direction at once as he tried to take in the sights around him, stumbling a little as a gaggle of women whose dresses were made entirely of feathers shoved past him, laughing uproariously.

"Um," he held up a neat square of paper, voice cracking, "I have an invitation?"

No one paid him any mind.

He'd honestly be surprised if anyone could even hear him over the energetic trumpet solo that the crowd was dancing to now. He tugged nervously on his bowtie, unsure where to go next. A smartly dressed servant strode by with a tray of champagne flutes, and Peter accepted one gratefully, happy to have something to do with his hands.

"Peter!" 

He spun, sloshing half of his champagne on the already-soaked floor, as a cheerful voice cut through the din. Peter was relieved to see a single familiar face emerge from the crowd: Clint Barton grinned and waved him over to the little alcove where he'd been observing the proceedings, smiling just as he had when Peter interviewed him after a golf tournament last week.

"What are you doing here?" Clint asked as Peter joined him, clapping him on the back. "I didn't take you for the partying type."

"I'm renting the little cottage next door," Peter explained. "A man came by yesterday, saying I'd been invited to a party by Mr. Barnes." He held out his invitation for inspection. 

Clint blinked. "You're not kidding. Well, what do you know?"

"What? How else would I have known to come?"

"No one's invited, Pete," Clint said slowly, all smiles again. "They just show up! It's the same every Friday night. I doubt half of these miscreants even know what Barnes looks like," he added, waving a hand at the teeming crowd.

"I saw him once," another guest said suddenly; his glasses appeared to be on upside-down. "He jumped off a ferry to save a child who fell in the river. Big naval hero, in the war." The man tipped his champagne flute their way and shambled off. A woman in a shimmering silver dress shook her head.

"No, he was a Marine, and became a soldier for hire when the war ended. That's how he made his money."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Yes, and he's the long-lost son of Theodore Roosevelt, a German spy, _and_ he invented chewing gum. I've heard it all."

Peter looked between them, brows furrowed. "Which story is true?"

"Depends on who you ask."

Spinning again, Peter saw the speaker was a powerfully built man in a dark suit, and if the party hadn't been so loud Peter would have been surprised that he'd snuck up on them. He had shiny dark hair and eyes, and a strange sort of smile on his face, like he was still learning the expression. An empty champagne flute dangled from his fingers as if he'd forgotten it was there. And even though the night was warm, he was wearing gloves.

"I'm Barnes," he said, extending a hand. Remembering his manners, Peter reached out to shake it and resisted the urge to laugh at the incredulous look on Clint's face.

"Parker, Peter Parker," he said, releasing the man's hand and gesturing around the room. "Mr. Barnes, this party is amazing!"

"You're enjoying it, then?" Barnes asked, looking pleased when Peter nodded. "Walk with me, I'll show you around." Waving at Clint, who continued to gape, Peter followed Barnes deeper into the crowd. 

Barnes kept up a constant narration as he walked. "Maine lobster, just had it flown in. Was getting tired of caviar. That's the Governor, feel free to say hello later, he loves to talk. The chandelier’s new, the old one couldn't handle all the swinging."

The house was massive, and still overflowing with people. Peter was having trouble taking it all in, and nearly missed Barnes' final question. 

"So?" They stopped on a little balcony overlooking the back pool.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"What do you think?"

"It's..." he struggled to find words grand enough for such a gathering. "Incredible. Unparalleled. Amazing!"

Barnes leaned closer, his smile slipping away. "Do you think it's enough?"

Baffled, Peter tried to ask him what he meant, but his words were drowned out by a burst of fireworks springing up from the other side of the house. The people all around them cheered. 

Peter tried again. "I'm sure your friends are having the time of their lives!"

"My friends?" Barnes looked around, as if only just realizing they weren't alone. "Right. Yes, everyone's having a swell time." He didn't sound like he cared either way. He turned and looked out across the water; Peter looked, too, but couldn't see much beyond a green light from a distant dock, flashing through the fog.

"Thank you for the invitation," Peter said, and Barnes jolted out of his reverie. 

"I have business to attend to," he said suddenly. "You know how that goes."

Peter had no inkling of such things, but nodded and smiled as Barnes wandered back into the house, looking quite lonely for a man surrounded by music and laughter. Peter drifted around for a bit longer, then, decided that he'd had enough fun for one night, walked back to his quiet cottage next door.

* * *

Lunch on Monday couldn't have been more different than the party Friday night. It was a quiet, serious affair at an immaculate table, but Peter was happy enough to reunite with his cousin that he was willing to play the part. It was fun to catch up with Steve and reminisce about the summers they spent together growing up. Peter was a little less sure about Steve's fiancée, Sharon; she apparently 'worked for the government' but was rather tight-lipped about it. She had politely shaken Peter's hand when he arrived at her home, but spent most of the meal talking with her guest from D.C., a physicist named Dr. Banner. Since Steve seemed happy to leave them to it, Peter was content to do the same.

"Glad they gave you a shot at that paper," Steve said, waving away a servant who was attempting to refill his water glass. "I read your interview with Barton, great work." He chuckled. "Barton's a real card."

Peter smiled, gratefully accepting a fresh glass of water and taking a sip. The elegant dining room was very warm; summer was hitting them full force this year. "Reporting on sports is fun, but I want to move up and get the stories that really matter, you know?"

Steve nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. "I hear you. After the war... it's been hard to find a sense of purpose."

Hoping to bring his cousin's smile back, Peter changed the subject. "You keep telling me to have more fun, and I got the chance Friday night. My neighbor invited me to a party."

"Really?" Steve raised an eyebrow. "Was it wild?"

"Mr. Barton was there."

Steve laughed at that. "They must have been swinging from the rafters, then. Hope you had a good time."

Peter laughed along with him. "It was like nothing I'd ever seen. Wilder than the wildest party you could imagine. And Mr. Barnes has one every Friday!"

The table fell silent. Peter belatedly realized that he had the attention of the other diners: Dr. Banner blinked nervously from behind his glasses and Sharon scowled.

"Barnes?" She asked sharply. "What Barnes?"

Peter looked back at Steve, and was shocked to see that he'd gone rather pale.

"Just... Mr. James Barnes. I rent a cottage next to his house." Sharon's scowl deepened, and Steve became very interested in his salad. "It was quite a party," Peter added, looking uneasily between them. "Even the Governor was there. Sounds like just about everyone was."

"Might be a good place to make connections," Dr. Banner said thoughtfully. Peter had nearly forgotten he was there.

"The New Money crowd can be... ostentatious," Sharon said finally, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Peter nodded, and eager to change the subject, asked politely, "What are your plans for the weekend?"

Sharon launched into a description of their future shopping trips and fittings for new summer attire and Peter quickly tuned her out. He looked over and saw that Steve was still staring at his plate of wilting greens, as if it were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

* * *

The next Friday, Peter found himself drawn back into Barnes' mansion, like... well he wouldn't say a moth to a flame, he was trying to _improve_ his writing, but... it was like coming in from the cold, he decided. All of these people, himself included, were drawn in by the warmth and light of Barnes' fantasy, and he felt his heart beat faster as he approached the front steps. When he squeezed through the door and looked around at the lively crowd, it seemed as if that first party had never stopped.

Peter drifted around, clutching a champagne flute someone had shoved in his face moments after entering, and really looked at the place for the first time. A marble bust of Teddy Roosevelt sat off-center on a cabinet with mother-of-pearl inlay, a dented bowler hat atop his somber stone face. A bronze statue of Poseidon was surrounded by platters of food on a huge table next to the grand piano, where people swarmed, filling their plates and singing along to a jaunty jazz number. He took his half-empty glass and a little plate of food up the stairs, looking out over the crowd for a moment before searching for a quiet place to take a breath. There was no sign of Barnes.

He turned left down an empty hallway and found himself in an elegant library, with full shelves on every wall and a sofa and several leather chairs in the center of the room. He picked a chair and sat down, nibbling on an olive as he admired his surroundings.

"They're not cut."

Apparently he wasn't alone. Turning in his chair, Peter saw Dr. Banner peering at a shelf. He pulled down a book and stared at it, brow furrowed.

"These books are all new," he continued softly, holding it up for Peter to see. "None of the edges have been trimmed, so none of them have been read. Very strange." 

Peter set down his plate and got up to take a look. "I don't get this place," he murmured, selecting a book of poetry that looked like it had never been touched. "Why does Mr. Barnes have these parties if he doesn't stick around to enjoy them? Why get all this stuff and not use it?" He put the book back with a frown. "What's it all for?"

"Someone's putting on quite a show." Dr. Banner shook his head. "I suppose I'll go back down, and try to... mingle." He shuddered and headed for the door.

After another look around the baffling library, Peter followed him out, but before he could make it back to the heart of the party, a voice called his name from a nearby salon.

Peter turned and saw Clint Barton in the crowd of enthusiastic, extricating himself to wave Peter over. "Parker! I have to tell you something!"

"Mr. Barton," Peter said by way of greeting, trying not to laugh as Barton stumbled a little and turned it into an awkward spin. 

"It's about Barnes," he said when he finally reached Peter's side, tugging the smaller man closer as a gaggle of dancers shimmied by. 

Peter raised an eyebrow. "So you've got a scoop for _me_?"

"I know a guy who knows a guy who served with him," Barton continued, pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket while Peter watched curiously. "Their unit was called the Howling Commandoes, and your cousin was part of it! Look, Steve Rogers!"

He smoothed out the old piece of newspaper, and even though the page was creased and discolored, Peter could still make out the much-younger face of his cousin, smiling next to his comrades, a dark-haired man on his right.

"Steve never mentioned these guys," Peter said softly, studying their faces. "I thought he just worked on top secret intelligence stuff." The family stories were all about Steve Rogers rising quickly through the ranks and serving at the highest levels of the government's war operations, turning the tide with his bare hands and can-do spirit. 

"This was his first unit," Barton continued. "Before he got tapped for bigger and better things."

Peter pointed at the picture. "What happened to them?"

Barton slouched against the wall, winking at a lady wearing a beaded headdress before picking up the story again. "So after his promotion, the Commandoes vanished during a mission. The whole unit, just... gone. And Rogers wanted to drop everything and go after them, but the brass said they had bigger fish to fry." Barton shook his head. "Rogers went anyway. The guy I talked to said that he and the fellas were thick as thieves, and his closest friend was James Barnes." Barton widened his eyes. " _Closer_ than friends."

Peter blushed as he caught the man's meaning. "So Steve went and rescued his army pals and his best friend? How come I never heard that story before?"

Barton shook his head. "Rogers found them, against all odds, but he was a day late. They had moved half of the prisoners, including Barnes, to who knows where, and the head honchos were fed up with Steve's solo act. This guy Dugan says they dragged him back to HQ after he returned with the missing men and they never saw him again, except in the papers saving the day. Kept a closer eye on him, and had stricter rules for his missions."

"Gosh." Peter's head was spinning; Steve had always been reluctant to talk about his service, but he'd never suspected how bad things had gotten, having been too young at the time to experience the war for himself. "So he never found his missing friends?"

" _He_ didn't," Barton continued, "but not even the Kaiser could hide twenty elite POW's from the government for long. At the end of the war, a small camp was discovered with the Lost Commandoes inside. But they were brought back to the states in secret," he went on, waving his hands dramatically, "because they were worried about all sorts of nonsense: spies, mind control, half-starved soldiers making them look bad on the cover of the Times..." He shook his head. "Apparently Rogers was in D.C. working on new projects and they wouldn't even let him leave to see his old friends. And within a week of them getting back stateside, Barnes had vanished."

_"Vanished?"_

"Crazy story, right?" Barton clapped him on the shoulder. "And now he's here, giving half the city free booze. What a world." A cheery voice called his name, and Barton stood up straight, tipping an imaginary hat Peter's way. "See you around!" he called, before jumping back into the fray.

Peter watched him get swallowed up by the crowd, standing and watching the party guests dance as time marched on, his mind awhirl from these revelations. When his eyes began to feel heavy, he drifted back to his cottage and went straight to bed, his dreams dark and murky.

* * *

When Peter arrived to meet Steve and Sharon for brunch on Sunday, he was ushered in by the butler and instead met by angry voices echoing down the hall. After standing awkwardly in the foyer for a minute, Peter was close to announcing himself when he saw Steve storm out of the study and head deeper into the house. He heard a door slam, followed by the roar of a motorcycle engine, which probably meant Steve would not be joining them.

Before he could turn around and leave himself, Sharon came sweeping out of the study in a dove gray dress with a determined smile on her face.

"Come in, Peter!" she called, beckoning him over. She sent him a calculating look before saying, "Steve won't be able to join us after all, but you came all this way, so we'll carry on as planned. We'll be joined by one of my colleagues in Manhattan." She strode out the door, Peter trailing after her, just as her driver pulled up. "Maybe you'll find him interesting enough to write about in your paper?"

"Ummm, maybe..."

Peter clambered in after her, settling into the back seat as the driver closed their door and headed for the city. He felt bad for leaving Steve behind, but since Steve had technically left _him_ behind first, he decided to just soldier on and enjoy the free food.

They were dropped off outside the Plaza Hotel and the elevator brought them up near the top floor. When they stepped out, a dark-haired man in a gray suit and deep red tie greeted them with a smile. He tipped his fedora to them, which had a red band to match, and waved them over. 

"Welcome to my humble abode!"

The suite he led them into had elegant wood paneling, rich red fabrics, and gold accents. He seemed to shine, too, smiling like he knew a joke that no one else was privy to. "Sharon, my darling, you're early."

"We're ten minutes late, Tony," she said, rolling her eyes fondly. "Traffic, what else? But if we'd been on time, would you even be awake?"

His smile widened. "Wouldn't _you_ like to know."

Peter cleared his throat, and the man's eyes slid over to his other guest. "This is the cousin?"

"Yes, the newspaperman," Sharon said, flicking a hand in Peter's direction. "Think you have enough interviews to get the project the proper publicity?"

Peter shook Tony's hand, wincing at the other man's crushing grip. "Well, I mainly write sports stories at the moment..."

"Let's eat, then we'll talk," Tony said, spinning with a flourish and heading towards a lounge where a round table was set and waiting.

Peter spent most of the meal savoring his eggs Benedict and wondering why Tony looked so familiar. He was pretty much left to his own devices: Tony and Sharon struck up a conversation about work that lasted until their plates were empty.

"So the plan is sound and we're ready to go, but until the price of steel drops, we won't be able to get the investors on board," Tony said with a sigh, pouring himself more champagne.

Peter choked on his own glass of orange juice, feeling foolish: that was the same pose he'd seen on the front page last week, Tony _Stark_ toasting the opening of a new power plant with some very powerful New Yorkers. Tony sent him an odd look as he sputtered, raising an eyebrow at the smile Peter hoped was reassuring.

Sharon hadn't batted an eye. "We really need to have a proposal by Thursday."

Tony shook his head and sipped his drink. "I'll need at least a week, Sweetheart." His eyes slid back over to Peter. "We boring you yet, Kid?"

Peter shook his head furiously. "No, of course not! It's been... lovely."

Glancing around the room, Tony shrugged. "Can't beat the Plaza. Although I might have a word with the chef about his Hollandaise. Could use some work." Setting down his glass, Tony smiled at Sharon. "Have we had enough shop talk? How 'bout a little music?"

He hopped up and headed for the Victrola in the corner, and a moment later the room was filled with a bright, bold song. Peter was already tapping his foot when Tony returned to the table, extending a hand to Sharon, who laughed as she allowed him to pull her to her feet. 

They danced around the table, quick steps that Peter could barely follow, and Tony said something Peter didn't catch that had Sharon laughing again. Peter couldn't recall her laughing half as much since he'd come to visit...

_Steve._

Peter felt a sudden chill as he remembered his cousin for the first time since they'd sat down to eat. His good cheer faded as he watched Sharon and Tony prance across the room, Tony's eyes never leaving her face. When the song ended, Tony spun her slowly one final time before returning Sharon to her chair.

She turned back to Peter, two spots of color burning on her cheeks. "Tony was just saying- are you alright, Peter?"

Trying to school his features, Peter nodded, hoping his smile came across as careless instead of forced. "Sure, I just- just noticed you both match," he said, waving a hand between the two of them and their gray ensembles.

Tony was still watching Sharon. "Fancy that." He picked up his empty Champagne flute and twirled it between his fingers. "We should do this again next weekend. How about brunch on Sunday, then you can come to the gala. We're breaking ground on my new office in Midtown!"

Her smile faded. "We're having lunch with Senator Perkins. He's someone Steve really needs to meet."

In an instant, Tony's good humor vanished. He set down his glass and straightened in his seat. "Of course. Who wouldn't benefit from meeting Saint Rogers?" he said, his words both light and bitter.

"We all have obligations, parts to play," she began, but Tony scoffed.

"Don't feed me the company line, I'm not some fat old senator you have to sweet-talk," he said sharply.

She frowned, he frowned back, and Peter considered feigning a heart attack to escape the sudden tension in the room. 

"I put a lot of blood and sweat into this company,” Tony continued, clearly just getting warmed up, “into this _country,_ to be just another bit-player industrialist-"

" _No one_ thinks of you as a bit player," she cut in, but he plowed on.

"-good enough to fall in line and march alongside Mr. Red, White, and Blue, but not worthy of his time-"

"That's enough!" Sharon stood, Peter rising from his own chair instinctively. "We'll make the next gala."

Tony smiled, a pale imitation of his earlier look. "Sure you will." He leaned back in his chair and tucked his hands behind his head. "Thanks for stopping by; you can show yourselves out."

"Send for my driver. We'll see you at the Mayor's birthday dinner, surely," Sharon said, smoothing down her dress.

"Uh huh."

She walked slowly to the door, Peter at her heels, Tony's eyes burning a hole in his back. Sharon didn't speak on the elevator ride down, a faraway look in her eyes. 

They stopped in the opulent lobby, settling into rattan chairs while they waited for the car to come around. Sharon watched the other guests drift past as Peter perched awkwardly on the chair next to her, his head still spinning.

"I'll have my driver take you to the station," she said suddenly, and he started.

"Pardon?"

"For your train home," she clarified, eyes still on the crowd.

"Oh yes, thank you," he said in a rush, and they went back to waiting in silence, her watching the beautiful people on their way to beautiful places, him watching her, wondering when his summer had gotten so complicated.

* * *

He was trying to think of a snappy conclusion for his piece on the Dodgers' big win Saturday when Peter heard the name _Tony Stark_ floating across the writers' room. He looked up and saw Mr. Robertson, the associate editor, chatting with a gaggle of reporters at the door to his office and got up to investigate. Sidling up to the group, Peter heard someone say, "Is there anything that man can't do?" He laughed along with the other reporters as they dispersed, inching closer to Robertson and clearing his throat.

At Robertson's expectant look, Peter asked, "What's up with this Tony Stark character?"

Robertson laughed. "Character is right," he said, pointing to a framed article on the wall that showed a younger Tony shaking hands with the Vice President. "He plays by his own rules and is always dodging rumors, but the results speak for themselves. He's going to bring electricity to all four corners of this country by the end of the decade, just you wait."

"So he works for the government?" Peter asked.

"When it suits him." Robertson waved Peter into his office. "He stepped up to the plate when they needed his help during the war, but generally he's in it for the thrill of discovery... and the fame and fortune that comes with it. If you want to get beyond sports reporting," he added, "these are things you need to know. You have to keep your eyes and ears open."

"Yes, Sir," Peter said, nodding. "I'm always trying to learn more."

"Good man." Robertson clapped him on the shoulder and pointed to another article on the wall, right above his desk. It was from about four years earlier, announcing the end of the war, and Peter was surprised to see Tony toasting Sharon, surrounded by men and women doing the same, with Steve visible at the edge of the frame, his head bowed. He was the only one wearing a military uniform.

"He was part of the team that brought us peace in Europe, the team that's leading us into a brighter future," Robertson said, "both literally and figuratively."

"I only know the broad strokes," Peter murmured, frowning at his cousin's solemn visage. "A team was put together from the best of every agency, right?"

Robertson nodded. "Paired with brilliant civilians like Stark, they were unstoppable. Banner, Pym, Carter... we'll never see a coalition like that again."

Choosing his words carefully, Peter asked, "So Ms. Carter's been working with him for a long time? I suppose they're pretty... close."

Raising an eyebrow, Robertson asked, "Did they give you a gossip column while I was out to lunch?" When Peter blushed and spluttered, he laughed. "I'm just ribbing you, Kid. Sure, people get close when they fight side by side. But she's ambitious; she'd never go for a 'devil-may-care' fellow like Stark." He grabbed a Manilla folder off his desk and pulled out another clipping, of a serious-looking Steve and Sharon posing under the headline _War Hero Engaged._

"Not when she's riding the coattails of Captain America."

* * *

Their conversation kept spinning through Peter's mind over the next few days, even as he found himself once again at one of Barnes' legendary parties. He contented himself with watching Barton flirt outrageously with some French models, mulling it all over: Tony and Sharon, Sharon and Steve, Steve and-

_Barnes._

The mystery man was making a rare appearance, his suit impeccable and his hair slicked back, although no one around him seemed to notice. Barnes was walking slowly across the dance floor, a serious look on his handsome face.

And he was looking right at Peter.

Peter glanced around, wondering if Barnes was approaching someone else, and by the time he looked back the man himself was a foot away, looking him up and down with a thoughtful frown.

"Can I talk to you." It didn't sound like a question.

"Um. Sure?" Setting down his empty glass on the nearest available surface, he followed Barnes through the throng, ending up on the balcony where they'd first spoken.

After a moment of silence, Peter cleared his throat and said, "Great party, as always." The sound of breaking glass echoed through the house, followed by shrieks and laughter.

Barnes didn't even flinch. He was gazing off into the distance, where that green light was flickering once again. 

"You're a good man, Peter, I can tell," he said, his eyes on the light. "You're..." He let the statement fade into the night and nodded, as if he'd come to a decision. "What would you say..." 

Peter waited, but Barnes paused, watching him intently.

"About?" Peter prompted.

"About..." Peter tried not to fidget as Barnes gathered his thoughts. "About inviting your cousin to tea?"

"Well, he's more of a coffee drinker," Peter chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck nervously when Barnes continued to stare at him. "What, you mean here?"

Barnes' eyes widened. "No, not- down at the cottage," he clarified, and Peter realized for the first time that his host was nervous. Barnes ran a hand through his hair, mussing up the sleek style. "I would take care of everything, of course. Just say that- that you're having tea with friends. Or something."

On the one hand, Peter knew he was wading into dangerous territory, but on the other, he was enjoying being pulled into the mystery and intrigue that surrounded his famous cousin. It was also hard to refuse with Barnes' sad brown eyes boring into him.

"Sure, I'll- I'll ask him," Peter said after a moment, "but no guarantees."

The sadness in his eyes was rapidly replaced with joy, relief, fear... then a cool nonchalance that he settled into, like a part he was used to playing. He nodded sharply.

"Tuesday. At 3."

When he turned to gaze out across the water, Peter knew their conversation was over. 

"Until Tuesday, then," he said quietly, and made his way back downstairs.

* * *

Barnes' idea of tea was apparently much different than Peter's, because by one o'clock a veritable army of men and women were marching through the little cottage, arranging flowers and setting up platters of food. The man himself showed up in a dark suit with a cream-colored tie, barking orders and picking everything apart. Peter watched in horrified fascination as Barnes went from furious drill sergeant to grateful employer as they finished and left, to frantic host as the minutes ticked by.

"He's not coming," Barnes said in a strangled voice. He raised a hand to presumably mess up his hair and Peter grabbed his wrist.

"It's only five 'til," Peter said, letting go hastily at the look Barnes gave him. "Just- just give him a few minutes."

Barnes pursed his lips. "He's _not-"_

The blood drained from his face. Peter looked out toward the path and saw his cousin heading towards them, wearing a crisp linen suit and a nervous smile. When he was a few yards away, his smile crumbled, his eyes shining with tears.

"Bucky?"

Barnes stepped forward like he was walking through quicksand, watching the other man approach in clear disbelief. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.

Steve swallowed, looked away, and met Barnes' eyes once again. "I can't- can't believe you wanted to see me," he said softly when they were a foot apart. "I just wanted to say how sorry I am. That I couldn't find you. That I let you down." His last words were a strangled sob, his eyes filled with anguish.

Barnes closed the gap between them, pulling Steve into a fierce hug, and they stood there holding each other until Peter was seriously considering going in to eat by himself. Barnes finally pulled back, holding Steve at arm's length and studying his face, Steve watching him nervously. 

"Steve," he breathed, eyes wide and glistening. He physically reigned himself in, pulling his smooth persona back on like an ill-fitting coat. "Would you- would you like some tea?"

"Sounds great," Steve said, clapping Barnes on the shoulder. Turning toward the door, he noticed his cousin standing on the porch for the first time. "Hey, Pete."

"Hey Steve!" he said, waving him over. "Come on in, you won't believe these little sandwiches! I'm just going to grab one for the road," he added, and Barnes' eyes widened. "I have a thing, you know, gotta run. Great seeing you, we'll have to do this again sometime!" He ducked back in, piled some sandwiches and cakes onto a cloth napkin, and darted back outside, waving as he passed the two men frozen on the porch. 

_I'm sure Barnes won't mind if I have a picnic by his pool,_ Peter thought, smiling to himself as he headed up the path to his neighbor's house.

* * *

Surrounded by a bounty of food and fresh blossoms, Steve couldn't tear his eyes away from Bucky, kept going over every inch of him, still in disbelief that the man in front of him was healthy and whole and _here._

Bucky stared right back, a teacup in his hand that he had yet to drink from. He wore cream-colored gloves on his hands that must have been rather warm for a summer afternoon.

"Are you... are you doing alright?" Steve asked finally, wincing at the words as soon as they left his mouth.

"Sure," Bucky replied, nodding, looking anything but alright. "Doing... you know."

"I don't, though," Steve said softly. "I haven't heard a thing since they found you and the others." He picked up a little sandwich, studied it, and set it back down on his plate. "Connect the dots for me, Buck," he said finally. "How'd you get from there, to... here?"

Bucky stared into the depths of his teacup for a moment before looking back up, a ghost of his old smile on his face.

"Remember when Dernier tried to get you into tea instead of coffee, and you almost fell asleep driving that supply truck?" He chuckled, and Steve smiled tentatively back. "We were a mess back then, out to right the wrongs of the world, with no clue what we were doing."

"Yeah, that was a crazy time." Steve shook his head. "I'm so glad you're alright. I should have pushed harder, insisted on-"

"That's all behind us," Bucky said, waving a gloved hand dismissively. "Have you been back to Brooklyn? I hear a lot's changed."

Steve nodded. "I still have an apartment there. And while some things have changed, what matters is still the same." He paused. "You sure you have time for this? I don't want to keep you from... whatever, going on and on."

Bucky shook his head and leaned forward, his eyes bright. "I want to hear all about it."

* * *

Peter returned hours later, after a luxurious day strolling the grounds and lounging around the mansion, to find Steve and Bucky still talking and laughing around his little kitchen table. Bucky Barnes looked more alive than Peter had ever seen him, gesturing and grinning, his stories leaving Steve gasping for breath as he howled with laughter. Bucky drank in Steve's joy like a flower that had rarely seen the sun, and Peter waffled for a few moments before rapping his knuckles against the door frame and strolling in, sending them both a casual wave.

"I better turn in, fellas," he said. "Eat some supper, get some rest..." 

Steve looked around as if waking from a trance, finally noticed it was dark outside, and blushed. He rose hastily to his feet, Bucky standing a moment later.

"Sorry to crowd you out, Pete," he said, but Peter waved away his apology.

"No problem at all. Glad you could come." He glanced over at Bucky, who was still staring at Steve. "Yep, come by any time."

Bucky nodded, finally catching on. "Come by for a tour! I'd love to show you around, when- whenever you're free."

Steve smiled. "How about Thursday? I can come by after breakfast."

"Perfect!" Bucky beamed at him, and stepped forward for a final hug. "Thursday, then."

"Thursday," Steve murmured, pulling Bucky close with a sigh.

"Thursday," Peter said, and the two men jumped apart, laughing nervously. "Take care, Steve.

"You, too," Steve said, looking between Peter and Bucky. "Take care." And with a final nod, he walked out the door, his hands in his pockets and his head held high.

After a moment of silence, Peter sat down at the table and picked up one of the remaining sandwiches. "I think that went well," he said.

"Thursday," Bucky said softly, his eyes still on the retreating figure in the dark.

* * *

Peter started seeing a lot more of Steve: when he wasn't joining him for lunch or dinner, Peter could reliably spot his cousin walking up the manicured path to Bucky's mansion. Sometimes late at night, sometimes early enough that Peter waved as they passed on his way to work. Things seemed to be going swimmingly: everyone wore a smile these days, and Peter was starting to enjoy his role as a sports reporter, even as he yearned for more serious assignments. After spending the day in Manhattan interviewing contestants in a sailing contest, their boats bobbing cheerfully at their backs in the warm summer breeze, Peter stowed his notebook and caught a cab to the restaurant where he'd be meeting Steve and Sharon for dinner. Whistling cheerfully as he walked in, he nodded to the doorman and waved when he saw Steve waiting for him inside.

"I thought we were going to that Italian place you like," Peter said as they joined Sharon at a table. "Not that I'm complaining, of course."

Steve shrugged, accepting a menu from their waiter with a smile. "Sharon heard this place was top notch, wanted to try it out."

"A little change of scenery," Sharon said, smiling. "And I'm in the mood for oysters."

Steve ordered drinks and a platter of oysters for the table, and they chatted about their week. Sharon was unusually attentive, asking Peter about his latest stories when she'd usually be content to talk cryptically about her own day.

"Well, Mr. Barton seems to be on his way to winning another tournament," Peter said, looking between them; Steve nodded encouragingly. "Lucky the weather's been so nice. I'll be covering the final event on Saturday, but this week's it's been all about the sailing-"

There was a commotion on the other side of the room, at the lower tables closer to the door. A man in a cheap suit had stormed up to a table, the harried maitre d' at his back. 

"The sailing?" Steve prompted.

"Yes, with... um... the first leg of the race," Peter went on, trying to remember what he’d been talking about. The group of men seated at the table in question rose to their feet to confront the newcomer. Peter tore his eyes away from the scene and faced Sharon, who smiled politely. Raised voices echoed through the restaurant. "They said they could've used more wind, but-"

There was a loud crack, and a woman screamed. Spinning in his seat, Peter saw that the man was sprawled on the floor, next to a chair he'd clearly knocked over, and standing there lowering his fist, his face bright with anger, was-

"Bucky," Steve breathed, his eyes wide. The assembled diners watched in silence as the staff approached the table, clearly directing them towards the door. Bucky shook his head stiffly, said something in a voice too low to hear, and threw a handful of bills onto the table. As he and his companions stormed out, the conversations in the restaurant all resumed at once, the other guests gleefully discussing the night's drama.

Sharon shook her head and picked up her wineglass. "I suppose you can't buy class," she said archly, taking a delicate sip.

Peter looked between his cousin, who was watching the doors with a heartbroken look on his face, and Sharon, who was watching Steve thoughtfully as she continued to eat her dinner.

Peter looked at the beautiful platter of oysters and found that he'd lost his appetite. He nodded along with Steve as Sharon resumed her usual chatter and realized two things:

Sharon Carter was not to be underestimated.

And even though reality was once again encroaching upon their summer of dreams, there might still be time for those dreams to be salvaged, and maybe come true.

* * *

After lunch on the terrace, Bucky took Steve around the house again, discovering even more rooms he'd forgotten to show him, as they did every time Steve came by. This time, Steve was noticeably subdued.

"What's the matter?" Bucky asked with a grin. They were walking down a hallway that passed by seemingly endless guest rooms. "I know the sconces in this wing are a little odd, but I wanted the whole house to have bronze so they had to be rushed over from-"

"I was there, yesterday," Steve cut in, watching Bucky closely. "At the restaurant."

"At the..." His face closed off, and he nodded, looking away. "Ah. Right. How embarrassing." 

"Are you alright?" Steve asked. "What did that man want?"

"It was nothing, just- just a misunderstanding," Bucky said, resuming his walk. "A problem with work."

"Which is?" Steve prompted. "You never talk about-"

"That's because it's ugly and dull," Bucky interrupted, a shaky smile back on his face, "not like you. Beautiful and bright. I wouldn't want to drag you down."

Steve blushed and looked away, and Bucky's smile brightened. "I just meant you can tell me anything," Steve said finally. "I was worried, is all. You have to know how much I- how much I care about you."

Bucky chewed on his lower lip for a moment, eyeing Steve thoughtfully, before turning away and resuming their walk. “Things were… difficult, when I got back, and I found some people who were willing to help me, if I helped them, with lots of strings attached.”

“But now you’re okay, right?” Steve asked, frowning at Bucky’s back. “Can’t you move on, do something else?”

Bucky shook his head, making sweeping gestures and they walked down yet another dazzling hallway. “I’d have to give up all this,” he said quietly. He said it in such a thoughtful, detached way; Steve couldn’t tell if he was serious. Before he could ask any more questions, Bucky stopped.

They had drifted back to Bucky's private rooms. He turned on his heel to face Steve, his eyes burning with inner light. "Do you..." He took a deep breath and stood up straighter. "Do you want to see my closet?"

Steve huffed out a laugh, still feeling a little off-balance. "Your closet? Sure, why not." He looked around expectantly, but Bucky just smiled wider, spreading his arms and spinning around the large, oak-paneled room they'd wandered into. "Wait..."

Bucky started opening drawers and cabinets, displaying his ties and cuff links, his socks and slacks.

"Just look at these, Steve," he urged, almost giddy, constantly looking back to see Steve's smiling face. He'd climbed a spiral staircase to a little balcony and opened doors to reveal dozens of shirts in every imaginable color.

"You always liked dark green, said it made you think of a forest," Bucky said, tossing a shirt down to Steve, who caught it with a chuckle. "Keep it, wear it out on the town."

"It's not exactly my size, Buck," he said, running the fabric between his fingers, then dropping it suddenly as Bucky threw another shirt his way. 

"I got lots of blues and greens," Bucky continued, raining shirts down on Steve's head, beaming as his laughter filled the room. "And coral! How'd you think I'd look in coral, huh?"

A peachy-pink shirt landed on Steve's head, engulfing his vision in a tropical sunset. When he tugged it off, Bucky was there, grinning, and when Steve reached out a hand, Bucky took it.

"I guess you could wear it in Miami, or Havana," Steve said, a little breathless. "You'd fit right in."

Bucky's smile faded at that, and he looked around at the mess as if waking from a dream. "I'd fit in there, huh?" he said finally, his voice rougher than before. "With the right shirt?"

"Buck..." Steve pulled him closer, but Bucky wouldn't meet his eyes. "You have a place, wherever you want it to be, no matter what you wear-"

Bucky's knees suddenly gave out, and Steve lowered him awkwardly to the floor, kneeling down next to him in a sea of fallen shirts. There were tears in his eyes, and when Steve tried to blink the image away, he felt tears run down his own cheeks. Bucky reached out blindly and grabbed hold of a shirt, a deep navy, and held it up for Steve to inspect. Steve nodded, ran a finger down the soft fabric, and rested Bucky's head against his shoulder as the man began to shake.

"All these," he gasped out, "all these great shirts..."

"These shirts are beautiful," Steve murmured into Bucky's richly-scented hair. "Beautiful, and wonderful, and good... even crumpled on the floor."

* * *

Steve was late for dinner that night. He tried to keep his apologies calm and an unworried smile on his face, but Peter had looked flustered and nervous, Sharon cold and calculating at his side, and the meal was mostly eaten in silence. Peter's few attempts at conversation felt loud and forced, and he soon gave up, keeping his eyes on his steak and potatoes, Sharon primly doing the same. Steve ate his food without tasting it, his eyes drifting to the green light that flashed out the back window at the end of Sharon's dock. 

When Peter awkwardly excused himself, insisting that he take his slice of strawberry tart to-go, Steve savored that last moment of silence before the other shoe dropped. He swirled the last drops of wine around in his glass until Sharon set her knife and fork down with a disappointed sigh.

"That was incredibly rude," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "Showing up almost an hour late, leaving _me_ to entertain your guest. Should I bother asking where you've been?"

"I was out for a walk, lost track of time," he said absently. "And when's the last time you took that boat out? We've never been sailing together."

Sharon sent him a knowing look. "I'm incredibly busy, as you well know. Too busy to go sailing. Too busy to go on long walks across the bay."

"But not too busy for lunch at the Plaza?" Steve shot back, feeling his face heat up. "And don't tell me it's for work; don't treat me like a child."

"Everything I do is for this country, for _us,_ " Sharon continued. "Tony knows the part he plays, and I know mine. Only you seem to have lost the script. We are leading the charge towards a brighter future. We're heroes, we're successful, we're _making a difference._ " She gestured around, an incredulous look on her face. "What more could you possibly want?"

He looked around, at the huge lovely house, the sumptuous meal, the gleaming sailboat long-neglected at the end of the dock. Sharon's beautiful frowning face, her elegant dress, the finger waves in her shiny blonde hair. It made his heart hurt.

"There's more to life than playing a part," he said quietly, and he stood and headed upstairs before she could call him foolish and naive, all of the things he'd called himself since he learned the truth about war and sacrifice, and his idea of a hero changed forever.

* * *

Peter leaned against an antique wooden chest with a sigh, letting the music and chaos engulf him after a long day of following Barton and his competitors around in the hot sun. There was something freeing about Barnes' parties, something dangerous that was hard to resist: the idea that you could truly vanish into the crowd. He took another sip of champagne, thinking he was almost tipsy enough to ask someone to dance, when he spotted his cousin's blond head in the crowd, moving with determination towards the back of the mansion.

Peter set his glass down quickly, grimacing as it sloshed onto the old wood, and darted after him. He finally spotted Steve talking urgently with Bucky Barnes on the back deck, by the wooden staircase that led up to the balcony. Before he could ask Steve if everything was alright, another blonde walked out of the packed house and slowly approached them. 

"Did you really think I didn't know where you were?" Sharon asked, staring incredulously at Steve. "I've tried to give you space, to work through whatever demons you're dealing with, but this ends here." She shook her head. "Are you trying to embarrass me?"

"So you're following me now?" Steve took a step toward Bucky, who seemed frozen in place. "And you brought _Stark?_ "

Sharon rolled her eyes as the man in question appeared at her shoulder, a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand. "I bumped into him on my way in," she said dryly.

Tony gave an unrepentant shrug. "I heard this was the place to be on Friday nights," he explained. "Didn't think it was quite _your_ scene, Rogers."

Steve scowled, staring down his fiancée. "After all these years, and all I've done for you, why is it too much to ask that I get to see my oldest friend? Why did you insist on keeping us apart?"

"I have always had your best interests at heart," Sharon said calmly. "After all these years, I thought you'd have realized that. I'm only trying to protect you."

"I don't need protection from Bucky."

Tony, about to take another swig of wine, frowned and lowered his arm. "Who the hell is Bucky?"

"Did you ever ask Sgt. Barnes where all of this came from?" Sharon asked, gesturing around. Bucky, Peter noticed, was on the steps behind Steve, inching backwards. "About the men he works for, who put him back together after the war?"

"That- none of that matters, he's-"

"She's right, Steve."

Steve turned to find Bucky standing above him, watching him sadly from several steps up. "I was... broken and abandoned. I found people willing to help me... for a price." He slowly pulled off the glove on his left hand, and Peter gasped when metal sparkled in the lamplight. He flexed his false hand, not meeting Steve's eyes. "I've done countless things I'm not proud of," he said softly, "but I'd hoped, that someday-"

"You thought what, that after all the damage you've done, the people you've hurt," Sharon bit out, shaking her head, "that you would still have a place in his life? That you showing up again would do anything but harm?"

Bucky shrank back on himself, struggling to cover his false hand again. Tony had started moving slowly towards him, eyes wide and bottle forgotten.

"Stars and stripes," he breathed. "How does it work?"

"He's not an 'it', he's a human being!" Steve spluttered, finally finding his voice again. "And I don't care how broken you think he is, or how much metal is under that suit. As long as he still has a heart." He jumped up the steps toward Bucky and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, to keep him from retreating further. He faced Sharon again, who gaped up at him. "I can't play the good soldier anymore, marching into the future with you. I've served and I made it home, and every soldier deserves a chance to rest." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sharon, but you've given me everything except what really matters."

He turned to face the man in his arms, tilting Bucky's chin until their eyes met. "And I can't pretend we're the same fellas who shipped out together, back when everything was simpler." Bucky stiffened in his arms, but Steve gave his shoulders a shake. "And that's okay. We can hold those memories close, and make new ones together. All I want is to embrace each day, no games, no tricks, not putting on a show."

Bucky glanced out across the water, then back at Steve's face. The pipe organ began to fill the house with a new song, both jubilant and eerie.

"I hoped," Bucky said, faltering, and cleared his throat. "I hoped that if I shone bright enough, that you'd see."

"I see the best friend I've ever had, the greatest man I've ever known," Steve said, leaning forward so their foreheads were touching, barely audible over the thundering organ. "I'm sorry it took so long for me to notice."

After a moment, Steve took a deep breath and straightened once more. Addressing the group, which included some drunken revelers that had drifted over as if they'd stumbled across Shakespeare in the park, Steve said clearly, "I'm stepping down from all of my current positions and starting over. I'm calling off the wedding that we never got around to planning. And I'm going back to my little place in Brooklyn." He faced Bucky again and added, "and I hope with all my heart that you'll come with me."

Bucky was nodding before Steve even finished. "Yes, definitely yes. Let's go."

Steve laughed, surprise and delight all over his face. "What, right now?"

Bucky grinned, pulling off both gloves and shoving them into his pockets. "Why not? I'll have some things sent over in the morning."

Gesturing around, Steve asked, "But what about your guests?"

Bucky shrugged, glancing around the place with unseeing eyes before focusing once again on Steve. "They'll see themselves out."

He reached out his flesh hand, and Steve grabbed the metal one and gave it a squeeze. They made their way out, past Sharon and Tony, who had their heads together, Tony's arm around her shoulders; past the revelers who began drifting away when the show appeared to be over; across the dance floor, out the door, and down the gravel drive, the party still raging behind them.

* * *

Mr. Robertson greeted Peter warmly, waving him into his office with a smile. 

"You're just in time to see the latest addition to my wall of headlines," he said, holding up a framed article for Peter to see. Steve and Bucky smiled up at him in black and white, and Peter flushed with pleasure at the sight of his own words:

_WAR HERO REUNITES WITH LONG-LOST COMRADE, BUILDS CENTER FOR DISABLED VETERANS_

"I knew you had it in you," Robertson said, extending a hand for Peter to shake. "This city is chock full of stories waiting to be told."

"Yes, Sir," Peter agreed, giving his boss a firm handshake and a smile. "And I'm ready to get started."

**Author's Note:**

> This is for BeautifulGlider, who gave me this idea when we were discussing The Great Gatsby going into the public domain next year. It's one of the few works of classic literature I enjoy, and I look forward to seeing all of the variations and spinoffs we'll get in the coming years.
> 
> It's been a rough couple of weeks, culminating in spending Thanksgiving alone and Black Friday dealing with a flat tire, but this fic has given me something to focus on, a goal to complete, and I hope it gives someone out there a pleasant diversion from the craziness all around us. I'm also jumping back into some old Harry Potter WIPs, which has been fun as well. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading, and have a wonderful weekend! ~MA


End file.
